


for my prayer has always been love

by MagpieCrown



Series: dear fellow traveler (miragehound) [1]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: (they certainly don't), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Mutual Pining, Other, Worldbuilding, character death but it's respawnable so who cares, spoilers for the lore book
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29378493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieCrown/pseuds/MagpieCrown
Summary: “My mom - she, she’s unwell, been unwell for a while, and she’s getting…” Elliott scratches at his beard in a violent motion, runs a hand over his mouth as if to keep the words from coming. “There’s a treatment. Expre-- expr-- testing phase, but the data looks solid. It might help, might… Anyway, it’s -creepilyexpensive. No point talking about it unless I win, so I…” He meets Bloodhound's eyes here, at last, haunted and desperate. “I gotta win, Hound. Whatever it takes. I need this money, and I need it as soon as possible. It can’t wait.”---(At the intersection of grief and honour and what it means to do the right thing, Bloodhound faces a choice.)
Relationships: Bloodhound/Mirage | Elliott Witt, past Bloodhound/Boone
Series: dear fellow traveler (miragehound) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2177295
Comments: 14
Kudos: 56





	for my prayer has always been love

**Author's Note:**

> me: give me lore :/ i just want some lore :/ wow :/ where's the lore :/  
> respawn entertainment: here you go you clown. you sad motherfucker. get absolutely rekt. go stare in the middle distance ugly  
> me, crying: thank u
> 
> (lowkey posting miragehound art on [twt](https://twitter.com/royalcorvids), come say hi lol)

_forgive me, for i am not acting myself_

_but these bees in my breath have to come out_

  
  


It starts the way all things tend to start: innocuous enough that by the time you realize something is off you are already in the middle of it.

Bloodhound knows the phenomenon well, has gone to enough hunts and fought in enough matches to develop a sort of wry appreciation for the elegance of it. How the most inconspicuous thing - a commitment to a route, a choice of a weapon, a decision to speak, even a turn of the head, even a blink - can become the pebble that eventually dislodges an avalanche.

The avalanches are easy to understand, most of the time - their name speaks for itself. Their resting bulks hide the potential energy to wound, mangle, destroy, but the transformation of that energy into kinetic is a straightforward process, a clean-cut cause and effect. That is what makes them simple even in their monumentality.

Simple does not mean easy, not when they lead to losses that cannot be recovered, to violent tears in the fabric of being that cannot be darned whole again. Not when the understanding of them stretches beyond the alchemic flow of energy, not when it grips by the back of the neck and refuses to let go, not when the avalanche, against all logic, keeps you buried years after you have left the site of the accident.

There is a reason, after all, why Bloodhound never uses charge rifles: they still remember all too well the events that unfolded the last time their inquisitive fingers picked the weapon off the ground. A childish action, a carefree expression of playfulness. 

They know that it is but a superstition: the charge rifles are not at fault, even _that_ charge rifle was not at fault; the path it was on would have withered painlessly and quietly away, had Bloodhound not picked the weapon up, their attention solidifying it into existence. Such is the terrible beauty of those pebble-moments: you never know what will become the next one. They only ever truly exist in the memory, as something to look back on afterwards and realize, ah, _this_ is where it all went wrong.

So - yes. Most of the time, the consequences are - neat, for the lack of a better word. A house of cards folding in on itself, guided by the laws of gravity and air resistance and friction and its own structure even as it unravels under the building weight of its crumbling bones. The entropic pile left behind, settled into the destruction, now-unbound energy ready to be harvested for the next turn of the eternal cycle.

Sometimes, though, Bloodhound is left at a loss.

(The pebble-moment is easy to spot in retrospect, as they always are. It is the third day after the monthly match, and Bloodhound is preparing to go home in a day or two, but for now they enjoy the lull that settles over the base after the majority have already left. Most will not be back until a week or so before the next match, to acclimate themselves to the pragmatic violence of the games once again after spending enough time in the ‘normal’ world to almost forget what it feels like.

That is not the only reason, Bloodhound knows. But they do not condone the metagames many of their fellow competitors are prone to playing, and so it is the only reason for _them._

...But the lull was only the setting, only the background. In that setting, Bloodhound faced a choice: to go to the training grounds, knowing that the communal showers would be blessedly deserted, or to go to the workshops and tinker with their goggles. Their suite at the base has its own bench, of course, and that is where they do most of their repairs and adjustments, but there is something wrong - something blasphemous, even - about the idea of disrupting the quiet of the private quarters with the roar of a welding torch or the electric buzz of the sonar once the dampeners are disconnected. As someone loving silence the way fish may love water, Bloodhound was loathe to taint it.

And so, Bloodhound made their decision and went to the workshops. That was the starting point.

Elliott was the workshops’ only other occupant. They got to talking the way they are prone to doing, friendly, easy though few things ever feel truly easy for Bloodhound when they have nothing to do with tracking, with hunting, with fighting. 

Then, the conversation turned in a direction seemingly unexpected for both of them.

And here they are now, and it is too late to back out, and the terrible mass of rock and snow makes its way down the slope, deceptively slow in its enormity.)

“I’m just saying,” Elliott babbles on in that endearing way of his, unable to stop. He was working on his holo-suit when Bloodhound arrived, and he fiddles with the screwdriver still held in his restless fingers. “That if you - I don’t know. If you’re open to the idea of, well, anything. With me, that is - if you’re open to any ideas without me, that’s totally cool, you do you buddy, but I was wondering spefici-- specifici-- specificically in the context of you - uh - doing things with _me._ Because otherwise why would I ask?” He laughs - nervous, almost hysterical. “Not that I don’t care - I do - oh bud, _please make me stop talking.”_

But Bloodhound has nothing to say, momentarily stunned and retreating deeper into the safety of silence, and so Elliott grinds to a stop all on his own, clenching the screwdriver so hard his knuckles turn white. 

Bloodhound absently assesses his grip (too stiff, ineffective for a stab, the direction is wrong unless he does it on an upswing, which is disadvantageous to his height), his position (tense but the center of gravity is removed from the vertical axis, he will not get on his feet quickly enough), his facial expression (drawn, anxious, distracted from his surroundings) before carefully setting it all aside. Some arena habits are hard to break, especially when they ride on the backs of the instincts born and honed where no bioprinter is going to save you from misjudging a potential threat.

But they are not in the arena or the wild. And Elliott is not a threat. He is just a man. A friend. A--

“Are you - asking me out?”

Elliott laughs again, unable to bear the silence where Bloodhound breathes it; he reaches up to scratch the back of his head but forgets about the screwdriver, seemingly shocked back to his senses by the cool brush of metal against his scalp.

“I guess I am. Wait, ‘guessing’ implies I’m not sure what I’m doing - which I am - I - well, I’ve had a soft spot for you for a while now, Hound.” He chances a glance at them, his smile crooking into something gentler. “A huge one, in fact, I’m one big soft spot at this point, it’s frankly embarrassing.” He cringes inwards, away from his own words. Takes a deep breath, releases it with a whoosh - a diver’s exercise, before plunging into the deep. _“Oh dear._ What I mean to say is - I’ve got feelings for you. Uh. Romantically speaking. And I was wondering if. Yeah.” 

How did they even get here? Not just _here,_ to this conversation, but here in general? What was the pebble heralding all of this? The first time they won together? The first time they were on the same squad? The first time they went up against each other in the arena and Bloodhound learned what Elliott sounds like when he dies? The first time (of the very few, mind) Elliott learned the same of them?

Or perhaps the time when Bloodhound wandered into his bar on a rare and thus precious whim, and Elliott fumbled through a drink offer so spectacularly that all Bloodhound could do was blink and ask if he had straws.

Regardless, they should have noticed it sooner, whatever it is that has been growing in Elliott’s chest. Whatever has been whining in the shards of their own.

It is a peculiar sensation. A promise of growth, a tentative and tender ‘maybe’ that invites to look to the future and try to find out what it has in store, but Bloodhound has always been a creature of the past. 

They would love to. They would love to find it out together. With Elliott - they would give it a try. They would be brave. Truly.

But all the shards keep reflecting Boone’s face back at them.

They shake their head. Such a small gesture, it could be mistaken for insignificant. “I am sorry.”

“Yeah yeah, no, that’s totally fine, that’s - that’s totally fine,” words immediately erupt from Elliott again, as if held back under terrible pressure and finally released. As if the speed could cover up the way it appears to pain him to speak them. And yet, he keeps saying more. “I was just asking, you know, just wondering, because, well, you and I, we always seem to…” He trails off, and the next words come out tentatively. “Hound? Are you alright?”

Bloodhound furrows their brow in surprise, does a quick mental inventory of how they must appear to Elliott. Big reflective glasses with blinders, a soft downtime respirator that does not need to be as powerful as the one they use in the field, baggy pants and a baggier hoodie with said hood up, a scarf, thin gloves, thick boots, the entirety of their form crammed into a chair with their knees pulled up. After years of covering up their skin, Bloodhound feels no need to school their facial expressions, but Elliott could not have possibly glimpsed anything this way, so something must have slipped up in their body language.

Are they that transparent? 

Is their wound that obvious?

Bloodhound skims over each consecutive step that has led them here, the casual destruction, the settling of the weight and only feels - lost. 

Avalanches leave wounds. That is not their fault, simply their nature, like a crow’s nature is to fly, but the understanding of it is a small consolation. Elliott has not hurt them directly, of course - it is simply an answering call of an older destruction, a mirror image, a ripple on the waters they keep hoping would still. Elliott did not mean to turn them troubled again. He could not have known.

“I loved, once,” Bloodhound responds. 

It was too long ago, and the wound still has not healed. It was too long ago, and yet every time something foreign and still familiar flutters in the hollow of their heart, they cannot help - cannot help bringing it closer, and comparing its shape to the shape of the wound, and never knowing what to do with the results. 

They realize here that Elliott seems to be expecting something - an elaboration, perhaps. Something that answers his question instead of inviting more. Maybe they should have said all that out loud. Maybe it would have made more sense to him than it ever did to them.

“Oh.” Elliott frowns, cocks his head. “Do you - you mean to say you still…?”

...Or maybe it would make no sense to him either.

Do they? No, that is not why they do what they do. Not why they keep an unspoken tally of their victories in the games, a tally they avoid even thinking about, for even admitting its existence would turn it into a bargain.

“No,” Bloodhound says. “That is in the past, but it is - the reason for my presence here, for my participation in the games. It allows for no distractions.”

It is cruel - and incorrect - to reduce someone as radiant as Elliott to a mere ‘distraction’, and Bloodhound winces in the secrecy of their mask.

But it is the truth: they cannot be distracted, because then they will betray Boone the way he had betrayed them. And Bloodhound cannot bear to be even with the self-assured fool, because what would that make them?

Bloodhound’s words have not passed unnoticed, and Elliott’s expressive face shutters off. Even the blankness that results is as loud as an actual expression would be: Elliott is upset.

Not only that. He is tired too, Bloodhound realizes - and everyone is tired after the matches, even the victors once the fleeting euphoria wears off and uncovers the ever-present, gnawing exhaustion, but now that they think of it, Elliott has not been doing well in the optional weekly brawls either, lately - has not even been to any in the past moon’s turn at all. 

Something is taking its toll on him. Now, Bloodhound is part of that something.

Elliott places the screwdriver into one of the open drawers, flexes his fingers.

“So what is it then, you - swore off of it because you - what - got your heart broken once?”

The words would sting on their own, but they see the pinched look on his face, his now-empty hands twitching to grab onto something just out of reach, watching it slip away before it could truly come close. They know how strikingly that hurts. They do not blame him for speaking his ache.

“I know you are no stranger to keeping people at arm’s length,” they point out, softening their voice where he cannot see their face. “I know you have your reasons for it, too.”

As far as peace offerings go, this is not much of one, and Bloodhound suddenly feels like an intruder, encroaching on Elliott in his grief even though they are in a communal space. Not for the first time, they wish the matter of words did not feel so stiff and suffocating to them. If they could wade it with any more surety, maybe they would have hunted down in it the right things to say.

If Bloodhound could explain anything at all to Elliott, they would. But they are right - they both keep their secrets. “I am sorry,” they say again, unfolding themself from the chair. “I shall leave you in peace.”

“No - you can stay.” Elliott gets up even swifter and grabs the holo-suit from its sprawl on the table. He leaves the tools scattered across the surface, and his face is turned away. “You came here to work, right? I was done anyway.”

Elliott leaves without a glance or a word of goodbye, his footsteps heavy and swift, a storm in his own right. The double doors slide shut behind him, trapping Bloodhound in a hull of silence, and for once, it is unwelcome, as there is nothing to distract them from the pang in their chest. 

Ah. So that is where they were wrong - Elliott’s - confession - was not the avalanche, not yet. That is why it made no sense at first. 

***

Elliott disappears from the base the very next day. It was to be expected: he generally does not linger if he can help it, eager to go home. Normally, however, he would come to say his goodbyes, maybe even try to get Bloodhound to come visit. They have never thought it to be anything out of the ordinary, considering how keen to socialize Elliott is even with the fringes of the strangest cases attracted by the radioactive beacon of the games. But when Bloodhound inspects what they thought they knew under the new prism of the conversation, they find that perhaps they were too quick to write his invitations off as Elliott just being, well, Elliott.

Not that any of it matters now. Not that any of this is going to be relevant again. The disturbed snow has settled. For all his bravado and ready-made smiles, Elliott is far from thick-skinned - Bloodhound would know. Bloodhound aches in much the same way, hiding themself away beneath artificial layers. They can hardly blame him if he is hurting that squeezing, airtight kind of hurt that comes from discovering a closed door that he had hoped to be open. Because why would anyone ever say anything, do anything, if not for the hope that it would change their path for the better? What are they all doing if not eternally chasing the trail of a kinder life?

Why would he not retreat with his hurt after Bloodhound showed him that the trail has long gone cold?

And so Bloodhound packs their belongings, calls for Artur, and goes home as well, hitching a ride on a ship and briefly allowing nausea to eclipse any less immediate ache. 

Their village by the lake, Krákuskel, has grown greatly in the past years - only an old habit compels Bloodhound to call it a village at all. That, and perhaps the jealously cradled knowledge of how vast the world actually is. So much bigger than Krákuskel, or the Wild, or even Talos in its entirety. 

Still. It feels good to be home. Even as a visitor. It feels delightful to free the sharp, crisp consonants of their mother tongue without the uncomfortably long stares that forever out them as someone who does not belong.

Gerdur greets Bloodhound on her doorstep, invites them into her house, pours them hot broth to help with the lingering nausea and lets Artur perch on the pack of her chair. They unclasp the mask and sip the salty, scalding liquid that fogs up their goggles as she talks over the quiet hum of a generator in the corner of the small kitchen, summarising the events that have transpired in their absence. 

Bloodhound’s line - the line of their uncle - has always been hailed as wise. And Bloodhound cannot testify one way or another, but perhaps their wisest decision overall was to name Gerdur the ruling elder of Krákuskel back when they were still an awkward, temperamental adolescent, thrust into a leading role by Artur’s passing.

Gerdur, twenty winters Bloodhound’s senior, rules well in their stead, with a good mind for numbers and machinery and a keen eye for commerce that they would never even hope to possess. But people hesitate to disregard the iron of the old line, and Bloodhound _does_ funnel all their winnings into the developing settlement, effectively enabling any and all projects Gerdur might have, and so she defers to them, if only in courtesy, if only as a nod to tradition. 

Bloodhound wonders sometimes if they would have made a good leader in deed and not in name, have they stayed. If they could have turned Krákuskel into something as big - something as _known,_ an actual place on the map of the planet belt and not just a disembodied rumor that is not even worth perpetuating, a fleeting child of idle curiosity, a quaint little place squeezed between the edge of the civilization and the ice-hot razor of a man-made disaster. 

But this place needs an economist, a diplomat, a scientist to be ruled by. It does not need yet another hunter. Whatever Bloodhound could have chosen, the land has decided for them. And the land is wiser than any bloodline.

“We had a visitor from Tasmos recently,” Gerdur says after recounting all the births (three, Eydis’s twins and Kari’s boy), the deaths (just one, Huld’s uncle, a hunting accident), the preparations for the Tri-Winter Festival, and the progress on repairing the massive engine they have discovered in the mines a moon’s turn ago. “It was...a promising encounter.”

Gerdur has waited with this news until the end. Bloodhound puts the empty mug down and fixes the mask back in place, tilting their head to show they are paying attention. “Tasmos - the lesser moon of Solace?”

The mention of Solace makes them think of Elliott. They wonder if he is alright, what he is up to next to the space Bloodhound could have occupied.

Artur crows in excitement and hops impatiently on his perch. There is barking outside: he must have spotted Gerdur’s shaggy dog in the falling dark, a dear friend and a prime bullying target. She gets up to let him out, then returns to her seat. 

She nods in response to their question and rubs the end of her greying-blonde braid between her fingers. “It could become a way to open a channel with Solace itself. From there, it is but a short reach to Psamathe.”

Psamathe - Gerdur has been dreaming of establishing contact with the metropolitan planet for a long time now, of eventually painting Krákuskel not only as a dot on the map, but a dot worthy of Psamathe’s attention and camaraderie. An ambitious dream, one that will not be fulfilled overnight, but Gerdur has always been eager to reach for the stars - and to collect all the lesser winnings along the way. So far, it has only brought their people prosperity and knowledge.

In all these years since Bloodhound has left to compete, Gerdur has never asked them to use their connections for the good of Talos, content with reaping the side benefits of the fame that came with their victories. They know she will not ask now, either: in her eyes, anything that could jeopardize Bloodhound’s dedication to the games jeopardizes the support system of Krákuskel and thus cannot be allowed. 

Tasmos is far away, and as a moon of Solace it falls under its jurisdiction, which means that they need to get on the same level, legally speaking, if they want to establish any stable exchange. Which is not a cheap endeavour - so, this is about the money. 

There is no bitterness bursting on their tongue like a bad berry at the thought. They both work to make life better for their people, each in their own way: Bloodhound provides, and Gerdur does everything else. It works, and it is fair. Bloodhound has all but abandoned Krákuskel to join the games for their own selfish goals - it is only reasonable if Krákuskel at least gets to benefit from their quest.

“At the end of this moon, we will have a big competition.” They do not give the details, the location, the setup - Gerdur will not find them important. “The prize for the first place will provide a significant boost for this project.”

Gerdur nods and smiles, her expression motherly, and something forgotten twists under Bloodhound’s surface. “Then may the Gods guide you,” she says.

Later that night, they retire to bed in Gerdur’s tiny guestroom, curling up under the thick quilts that smell of dog hair. Tomorrow, they will warm their own hut back to life, but the generator in it - a finicky thing that Bloodhound insisted on installing instead of a more stable one that could be used by someone _actually_ living in the village - always takes hours and several very intricate rituals to wake up from the slumber, and Bloodhound has no desire to spend their first night back shivering around a skinful of hot water.

They think about Elliott. That was not their intention - Talos is so far away and so different from everything they have come to associate with him, and there is always enough work to keep their mind occupied. But they cannot help going over the sketch of the plan for Tasmos that Gerdur has laid out for them, and Tasmos means Solace, and Solace means Elliott.

Bloodhound sighs.

The truth is, they do like Elliott. A lot. They would have loved him, even, were the circumstances different. 

But then again, the circumstances themselves - Bloodhound’s grief and desperation and a wild desire to make everything right the way a flame can make everything right for a crumpled up page filled to the brim with writing - are what brought them to the games in the first place. They know Elliott _because_ they grieve.

It could have gone down a different path, many years ago. They could have met before a burning hearth, surrounded by people they knew and called family. But _that_ trail is firmly buried under the grinding ice that is colder than anything nature could have birthed; an older wound, frozen solid, kept whole in its crystalline precision. They both had time to grow into their fletched, jagged selves before they could be allowed to meet.

Bloodhound curls up tighter, hiding their face from the nipping chill of the room. How would it have gone for the two of them if not for the disaster, if not for its aftershocks? Their parents would still be linked - Bloodhound’s family home would still stand - maybe they would not have latched onto Boone with such zeal if they were not so crushingly lonely in the aftermath. Would not have gone to the games after his passing. Would grow to define Elliott as a friend from childhood instead of - work? Could the games be called work?

How strange it is to consider that the disaster, an avalanche in itself, might have also been a pebble that ended up burying an entire past that could have come to be.

They would be a completely different person, that is for sure. Maybe Elliott would not even like them, that other version.

Bloodhound grins without humour into the blurry dark. Maybe Elliott would be happier this way.

***

Elliott is already back at the base by the time Bloodhound returns, still feeling vaguely green from the bumpy ride. Elliott looks sullen, moody beneath his usual cheery façade, and Bloodhound circles his orbit with caution, worried, unsure if their approach would be welcome. Are they still even friends? Does Elliott want them to be?

But the pack survives by staying together in the times of trouble. And, for what it is worth, Elliott is in Bloodhound’s pack, and even if nobody else seems to notice or feel concerned about his troubled state, Bloodhound does.

Every orbit runs its course. Just like Tasmos will eventually make a decision, they cannot circle him forever: sooner or later, they will either fly free or collide.

And the idea of flying free feels too eerily similar to falling.

The door of Elliott’s suite is open, and Bloodhound sees him hunched over some papers lying on his desk, his shoulders a rigid line of someone so engrossed in reading they might as well not be there at all.

Bloodhound does not appreciate getting startled (though it is a rare occurrence in itself), and so they tap softly on the door jamb before speaking to spare Elliott the shock.

“Welcome back.”

Elliott jumps anyway, away from the desk as if scorched and nearly falling out of the chair, before diving back to it and grabbing the papers to stuff them haphazardly into a drawer. He whirls around so hard his chair threatens to rotate him a full circle before he slams his feet on the floor to stop. 

“Hound!” He exclaims. “Didn’t see you there, gave me a right fri-- fr-- fri-ahh _hah,_ scared me, is what you did.” Elliott laughs helplessly, his disarming grin slipped easily on before something occurs to him. “Wait, what do you mean ‘welcome back’ - I got here first! _You_ welcome back!”

The tight knot of tension in Bloodhound’s gut relaxes a fraction at the sound of his voice, at the immediate effortlessness of his banter. Maybe it is all going to be alright. Maybe they can still be friends. Maybe, whatever it is that ails Elliott, they can help him conquer it.

But a very recent memory irks at Bloodhound, one from just seconds ago, still fresh and unsettled in the waters of their mind: the way Elliott had reeled back from his desk, as if away from a poison trap, and how he rushed right back in, hands-first, unheeding of the danger. Bloodhound keeps their eyes trained on Elliott, but the desk is greying in the periphery: it is ill-advised to look at some threats directly.

Oh Gods, how exhausted he looks. The downtime was no help for him at all.

They step into the room before they can catch themself. Is this still permitted? Are they still welcome?

“Thank you, then.” Bloodhound allows themself a smile in the short reprieve before they have to speak the rest of it. “How are you?”

Elliott glances away, back at them, tugs on the cuffs of his fingerless gloves - his most obvious tell before he conceals the truth. “I’m peachy! Just peachy,” he says, and crosses his left leg over the right, and taps the heel of his right foot against the floor. Another tell, one of nervousness. “You? All good back home?”

Bloodhound frowns, shakes their head in a short motion. The pull of Elliott’s gravity compels them to take another step. 

Here they go. “Our parting happened on difficult terms, and I wished to make sure that you were alright.” After over a fortnight of disuse, the syllables of Common roll thick and soft on their tongue, coating their mouth like a glob of seal fat. 

(“If _we_ are alright” is what they really want to ask, but even the thought of it not being so is too scary to be suggested into existence.)

Something changes in Elliott’s face, there and gone, but its short and violent presence leaves an imprint on his smile, distorting it into a bitter show of fangs.

“Oh Hound, bud, not everything in my life revolves around you,” Elliott responds, and his voice is thick lake ice with too many cracks in it. The weight holds, but everything is so broken. “You were right, by the way. To - to turn me down,” he adds before Bloodhound can ask him to clarify. “Not the right time for me either. Not a good one. Not a good - _me_ \- in general,” Elliott gestures at himself, the motion jagged and cruel, “but, you know. As good an excuse as any.”

That is untrue - so untrue, in fact, that angry tears threaten to spring to Bloodhound’s eyes, a bodily reaction to the sensation of profound wrongness. But they press down on it, will it away - now is not the time. Something happened, and Elliott is poisoned, and maybe he does not wish for Bloodhound’s help - but maybe he has simply forgotten that he _can_ ask them for it, always, whenever he needs, whatever they are to each other.

“You can tell me,” Bloodhound says softly. Not a prompt - a reminder. A hope that this simple truth still stands.

Elliott breathes forcefully out through his teeth, rubs a hand over his face. Gets up, and walks past Bloodhound to slide the door shut, and back to the window, and back to the door, pacing like a caught beast, too big for his cage, too small for the burden breaking his spine. 

Bloodhound steps aside and watches him pace, the nervous energy released by his footsteps seeping into the air. Finally, he stops, and dumps what looks to be a load of laundry from another chair, wordlessly offering Bloodhound to sit. When they remain standing, he shrugs and collapses back into his own chair.

“It’s my mom,” he says, and his mask finally slips in full.

Bloodhound nearly sways from the disjointed fullbody relief: he still trusts them, he does, otherwise he would not-- but the meaning of his words catches up in the very next moment, sending a shrill chill of alarm down their spine.

Bloodhound knows his mother’s name - Evelyn. She was colleagues with their own mother. They have never met.

(Their mother’s voice, lilting, alive, talking to their father: “...And Evie’s raising four boys on her own, what with that good-for-nothing husband always gone. We should invite them here for supper sometime.” Louder, now, and blurrier - her turning to address Bloodhound, the memory smudged from being recalled too many times, but they remember so little of her, they have no other choice: “The twins are just about your age, you know.” A short pause, a ghostly sensation of a hand ruffling their hair to their answering indignant squeak. Teasing in her voice that always made it sound like singing. “You could stand to make a friend or two before you grow up completely wild, prowler-pup.”)

Bloodhound knows her name but little else, her uncertain silhouette shimmering too close to their own ghosts for comfort. Elliott talks about her, of course, quite often in fact, achingly proud and wistful - about her cooking and watching his matches and the ingenious work on the holo-tech - but Elliott has a way of talking about things without truly saying anything, building up a smoke-screen of words to conceal from view what actually hurts. He never volunteers anything beyond the superficial, and Bloodhound, too aware of the unhealing scars family can leave, never asks.

Is that why he would so often invite them along? Was he trying to tell them something this way?

Elliott’s breaths are coming harsh and heavy as he fights for control. Bloodhound waits, recognizing a scar in the making.

“She’s - she, she’s unwell, been unwell for a while, and she’s getting…” Elliott scratches at his beard in a violent motion, runs a hand over his mouth as if to keep the words from coming. “There’s a treatment. Expre-- expr-- testing phase, but the data looks solid. It might help, might… Anyway, it’s - _creepily_ expensive. No point talking about it unless I win, so I…” He meets their eyes here, at last, haunted and desperate. “I gotta win, Hound. Whatever it takes. I need this money, and I need it as soon as possible. It can’t wait.”

Another door, threatening to shudder closed in his face. Bloodhound tries to smother a pang of guilt - whatever Elliott’s mother is suffering from is not, _cannot_ be their fault - but the ache persists. 

Something is wrong. The steely, manic glint in Elliott’s eyes, the one that comes before jumping over an abyss and not knowing if you will make it. Something is poisoning him - but what?

The bear trap of the papers - what were they?

(‘Whatever it takes,’ he said.)

And then it clicks. Bloodhound’s spine runs cold again, a rush of danger.

People bet on the games. There is a whole system in place, semi-official and well-oiled. Winners, losers, kills, deaths, guns, even the locations of the Rings - everything is counted and categorized and assigned a price tag, and the spectators are willing to play along. Bloodhound knows that in an absent-minded, theoretical way, same as they know that many bet on them to win. It holds little interest for them, an unwelcome distraction more than anything else. 

But many participants take a much keener and more secretive interest in the matter, going as far as shaking on temporary alliances and agreeing on the order of eliminations, so that a person on the other side of the screens could place a well-timed bet and split the money afterwards.

Bloodhound has been approached with an offer on one occasion. Since then, people know not to try to include them in the machinations. There is no honour in battling like this, and the knowledge of it, together with Bloodhound’s sense of duty, guides them firmly away from the reek.

The money pool of this moon’s game - duos in an arena synthesized after an area of Olympus - is enormous as it is going to be an anniversary game, with the lion’s share of it promised to the champions. Bloodhound does not know how big a sum Elliott requires to get his mother into the treatment program, but something tells them that the first prize would cover it.

That is what those papers are - and it really is paper, the old-fashioned way, to avoid hacking and leaking. Bloodhound recognizes the pages now, retrieved from their memory, has seen enough people exchanging them furtively in the hallways of the base. Prognoses, statistics, strategies. A play-by-play scenario of the game that will be updated once the squads are announced - which will be tomorrow. Only a sketch of it, of course: anything can happen in the arena. Accidents happen. People get double-crossed, things do not go according to plan. But the intention is there.

How many people would Elliott have to make deals with in order to secure that first place? How much would it chip away at the prize? At _him?_

“Elliott,” Bloodhound speaks urgently, invoking the name his mother has given him; they feel how the sound of it tethers them together when Elliott’s eyes snap sharply to their own, even through the reflective lenses. “If the lot casts us together, I will bring us victory. I _promise.”_ They cannot promise him their share of the winnings - they have a responsibility to Krákuskel - but at the very least they could help him secure his half. “But please, I implore you - a dishonourable victory will only bring you ruin. A wrong deed will always circle back.”

Offence slackens Elliott’s face like a slap. “I’m not - I’m,” he sputters, “Is that what you think I’m planning? I’m not gonna _rig the games,_ Hound, I - I’m not a _cheater!”_

The way he spits the word betrays the bitterness it is steeped in - even the implication offends him. And that is not what Bloodhound meant to say, not at all, but at the same time - did they not, though? They _know_ Elliott’s soul is not inscribed with dishonesty, but despair can drive people to act with terrible recklessness.

And if it is for his mother, Bloodhound understands - they would also do anything. They _did_ run out into the blistering cold, screaming against the thickening blizzard even as it tore down their throat and froze their eyeballs.

“Forgive me,” Bloodhound asks quietly. They clench their fists. Unclench them. “I did not mean to…”

“Nah, you’re good, you’re - I know.” Elliott sighs and lifts a hand to rub his eyes, continues the motion and runs his fingers through his hair, fluffing it up on the way back out of an unconscious habit. The smooth silkiness of it looks so at odds with the rest of his haggard self. “I thought about this. I’m not gonna lie.” He waves at his desk, at the poisoned trap crammed into the drawer. “But I won’t.” His sigh is heavy, as if draining the last of his power. “I just have to win.”

Simple as that.

For a moment, both are silent. The frantic energy is gone from the air; only Elliott’s exhaustion remains, a thick, suffocating fog that has been eating away at him for Gods know how long.

How has Bloodhound not noticed? And they dare call themself his friend.

“I should have known sooner,” they say, helplessness pooling in the spaces between the words. “I did not see.”

Elliott’s smile is a gash. “Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs in a rehearsed motion. Always shrugging everything off. “People generally don’t.”

Bloodhound is stung harder than they have any right to feel.

Elliott slaps his knees and gets up slowly, as if his every joint is weighed down. “Well, if it’s all cool with you, I was gonna go to the shooting range, run some sims. Start loosening up for the game, and all that.”

He salutes them amicably as he walks past, and the door hisses open. “See you around, buddy.”

Bloodhound only nods. What else is there to do?

***

They are not on the same team.

Bloodhound is paired up with Deadeye, and they scowl when they first hear it. Deadeye’s idea of a good game is to find high ground and set up her nest and not move from it until the end, using modified darts to literally snipe the data about the rings from the survey beacons. This has led to disagreements in the past: while Bloodhound appreciates the art of ambush hunting, one strategy never fits all occasions. It is highly likely that they will split up once the game begins and go off each on their own.

Elliott’s partner is going to be Rampart.

Bloodhound considers this information. Ramya would not be their first choice, if they ever had one. Their personalities clash too harshly, and in general Bloodhound has little appreciation for people uncaringly ripping the fabric of silence, while Ramya openly delights in the mayhem, like a creature born of chaos.

But she is also a formidable and _very_ competent contestant - and her professional pride will never allow her to get pulled into the betting games. She might very well complement Elliott’s own skillset in a way that will lead the two of them to victory. 

That does not mean that Bloodhound will make it easy for them. The promise they have made long ago thrums in their blood, and to honour it, they must always fight with everything they are.

But Elliott and Ramya have the makings of a winning team regardless.

The week before the game passes in a quickening blur as more and more contestants arrive, filling out the hulk of the base with voices and clatter and clanging that only somewhat quieten during the night. Bloodhound spends it training and re-tuning their equipment, going on nightly hikes with Artur when the fog of noise becomes too thick to bear.

They do not talk to Elliott again. He does not volunteer his company like he would in the past, but it is for the better: even the sight of him, grim and certain, is too much, and there is a finite amount of pain Bloodhound’s heart can carry, no matter how far it seems to expand every time something demands it to.

Bloodhound does not talk to Elliott, but he occupies their mind nonetheless, his presence only strengthened by the rare glimpses of him, their memory throwing it into sharper contrast that deepens the bags under his eyes and the grim set to the line of his jaw, the anguish stark and clear on his tortured face.

The more they think about it - unable _not_ to think - the more they begin to doubt.

And as the day of the game grows near, Bloodhound realizes something.

They want Elliott to win. 

They wanted him to all this time, of course: they are not heartless, no matter what some people seem to think, fooled by their expressionless mask. But where previously it was an abstract, theoretical thought, now it is threatening to become...something applicable.

What if...what if it would happen? What if they could - stand aside so that Elliott would win? What if they could aid him, despite being on a different team?

The thought shocks them like icy water of an autumn stream; the bloodied guilt crushes them next. They should not even be thinking this, let alone considering. After all this effort, after having to learn what death feels like and then learning it again and again and again, hammering the shape of it into their very core - after doing all of it for Boone - would they throw it away? Would they, finally, admit that they could only ever betray Boone in return? Would this accursed vortex of the games have sucked them in for nothing?

Bloodhound is in their quarters when the thought hits, and they pull the goggles off their stand on the desk, flip the sonar on and off and on again, feeling the low vibration of the device through the gloves, a coded message to its co-creator. Why are they here, if not to use their skills to gift Boone a better afterlife after what he has gifted _them?_ Why are they here, if not to make his death make sense?

How Bloodhound wishes they could talk to Uncle Artur. Maybe he would help them find the resolve they so hopelessly lack. Would help them do the right thing, even if they do not know anymore what it is.

But maybe their resolve, lacking or otherwise, will not be tested. Maybe Elliott will get eliminated before the end of the game, or maybe Bloodhound will - but the phantom relief of it feels slimy and fake, a coward’s hope. A decision relinquished is not a decision at all, and they are betraying their duty by even thinking about finding a way around it.

The anxiety, the uncertainty of it all stews them into incoherency, making them chew sores into their lower lip and waste hours of sleep hiking - even to the point where Artur refuses to join them.

This will not do.

They have to decide.

***

The loading bay opens its mouth, expelling everyone through the hatch, and the wind hits Bloodhound in the chest, almost sending them tumbling through the deep of the sky before the jet-pack kicks in and they right themself, swallowing the sharp jolt of fear. They would probably throw up from it, if not for the gravity pushing their stomach somewhere in the area of their feet.

The lot has cast them as the jumpmaster of the duo, but Deadeye has wordlessly shrugged her heavyset shoulders at them back on the ship, and so they are not surprised when the AI pings with the notification of Deadeye unhooking herself from the jumpmaster pilot. Her shape, quickly reduced to a dot with a blazing comet-tail, veers away towards one of the skyscrapers.

As expected.

Bloodhound looks around for a spot to land, all the while trying to guess in which direction Elliott would go. They have a decent idea of his tactical preferences, but Rampart will hardly be argued with if she decides on something else.

They drop down in an area imitating an apartment complex, quickly ducking into one of the buildings to loot for supplies. If Bloodhound is doing this alone, they will have to think on their feet, more so than usual.

It is fortunate, then, that they are good at it. Let the games begin.

They quickly take out a duo looting an apartment across the street, Firebolt and Swiftstrike, easy targets, too reliant on their long-range abilities. The lot has been unkind to put them together, and Bloodhound wastes no time subding them in close quarters.

They wipe their axe and loot the bodies clean after taking a moment to close the eyes of the fallen. Afterwards, Bloodhound watches as the arena bots scuttle out of the service tunnels and despawn the duo, collecting the metadata cartridges. 

They have seen Swiftstrike take an interest in game rigging before - they would not be surprised if it were the case this time as well. 

Which means one dishonest squad out of Elliott’s path to victory. Bloodhound nods to themself and checks the map for a route to a survey beacon.

Their decision was simple in the end: all these people are their own competition as much as Elliott's. It is fair game if they eliminate them, and if Bloodhound knows these people to indulge in cheating, that is simply a point of convenience.

It is fair. The honour is preserved. It is fair.

That is what they repeat to themself as they slice their bloody way through the arena, hour after hour after hour, ambushing isolated teams and wreaking havoc in larger brawls before disappearing just as swiftly as they arrive. They keep their side of the communication channel muted; Deadeye does not care for small talk, which is, blissfully, something they have in common, and about halfway through she fizzles out entirely with a hissed curse and a grunt as someone catches her when she is finally forced to flee a narrowing Ring. Bloodhound mouths a short prayer and turns the comms off for good.

Morning slides into afternoon and early evening, and as the Ring grows smaller Bloodhound acts with even more caution. The sonar buzzes as it spills over the ground, through the walls and now-unmanned traps of the fallen squads, a call in its vibrations that Bloodhound keeps sending out as naturally as they breathe or pray: _Witness me, Boone. Witness me. I am doing this for--_

Bloodhound stops in their tracks, turns away from the glare of the evening sun, unhindered by any clouds, heavy in the thin air of Olympus’s copy. They got too distracted, too focused, their thoughts narrowing down into a needle, but now they check the map, the tiny circle that remains of it, the numbers in the top right corner.

Two squads remain.

That must be Elliott. They do not know if Rampart lives, but even in their hunting and killing trance they stayed attuned to the announcements and the notifications just enough to know: ‘Mirage’ was not a name sounded among the dead. He _lives._

Bloodhound breathes in sharp relief, the respirator hissing in response as it absorbs the air pressure. He lives - he made it - the poison has not got him, the bear trap has torn into itself instead, he is almost there, he only has to…

Oh.

He only has to kill Bloodhound.

Bloodhound drops into a half-crouch, checks their periphery, a knife already unsheathed, a gun tracking their eye movements like a loyal dog - an instinctive reaction, an awareness of a nebulous kind of danger finally solidifying into the shape of a person.

Pulse hammers in their chest, in their throat, making their fingers tingle where they are gripping the weapons, agitation rising in them the way it has not throughout the entire day, waking them up from the trance with a jolt that is almost painful.

So _this_ is the real decision, then. Neither of them is dead, and there is no one else left to make it for Bloodhound. 

The weight is theirs to bear, just like it was always meant to be.

Bloodhound forces their limbs to loosen up before they lock up into a useless husk, sheathes the knife, straps the gun to their back. First, they need to investigate. They need to know more.

The Ring is small, and so it does not take much tracking and sneaking to find Elliott - as well as Rampart. They have holed up in a room with one door and a reinforced window, and through the glass, Bloodhound can glimpse the outlines of her barriers and the beast of a machine gun mounted behind the one filling up the doorway. They even see Elliott, silhouetted against the void of the window, still and alert. His decoy is leaning against the wall of the next building over, nonchalant and idle, and Bloodhound stays carefully out of its line of sight as well, crouched behind a bicycle stand.

It is a risky setup. If someone were to throw a well-aimed grenade over the barrier, they would never get out in time, entombed in the explosion. Their plan must be to take down whoever tries to do exactly that before they can come close enough for the toss. The decoy would be their alarm system.

Depending on its position, the last Ring might still force them out - or flay them both in the room if they bank on getting the kill.

And it will be closing soon. The time to decide is running out.

A frag grenade seems to burn right through the fabric where it is hidden in a pouch on Bloodhound’s belt, shaping promises of victory into their skin.

Oh Gods.

What do they do? What do they do now?

Who do they betray?

Do they ruin everything they have done, ruin all hope they might have to make it right - or do they ruin one person?

...One living, breathing person.

The arena is silent and watchful. No birds, no insects, no buzzing of life in its synthetic sterility; even the electric gnashing of the Ring fades away. The thin air slides into Bloodhound’s lungs and pauses there, waiting.

The avalanche is rolling down the slope, and Bloodhound turns slowly to meet it chest-first, exhilarated by how afraid they are.

They have no right to ask him to forgive them, and so they do not.

“I am sorry, Boone,” they whisper instead before stepping out.

For half a second, there is nothing. Only the soft sound of their footsteps, the fabric sliding over their skin, the hiss of the respirator as their muscles pull oxygen out of their blood.

Then, the world explodes in gunfire, its jaws tearing into Bloodhound at an angle, shoulder to chest to hip, shredding everything on their path, shredding them right through and mixing their pulverized blood into the stench of gunpowder until the air smells and tastes of nothing but metal, until the smell and the taste and the sound become indistinguishable, until the difference ceases to matter entirely.

The impact sends Bloodhound sprawling on their back, their head cracking against the pavement, but the sharp pain of it is drowned out by their mangled body screaming alarm, the blood gluing their throat shut.

The fire ceases but does not hurry to detangle itself from the air, leaving it ringing. Bloodhound, stunned, gurgling, watches the smoke trail upwards from their chest.

“HA!” Rampart crows through the din. _“Wow,_ this was a good one! Ellie, did you see that? What an absolute plonker, jumping out like that…”

She lands another jab - Bloodhound’s fading hearing, torn apart by the rattle of the guns, registers something about their parents - and the celebratory music is kicking in right over the renewed hum of the Ring, but the world is already, mercifully, growing dim.

They let it, grateful.

***

_...reprinting complete. You may now step out of the printing pod. If you encounter any difficulties moving, please use voice commands to alert a staff member. If you find yourself unable to speak, a staff member will be alerted automatically within ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY seconds if the pod has not been vacated. Thank you for your patience. If you would like to change the language, please..._

Bloodhound gropes blindly for the latch and stumbles out of the pod in a cloud of steam, shivering and coughing the filmy phlegm out of their brand-new lungs, their mind still buffering like an overloaded computer. How many times has their body been reprinted by now? Too many to count, and yet every time shakes them anew.

They do not even try to squint through the blurry fog of their eyes, navigating the room by touch and memory, keeping their breathing slow: the place was designed with many disabilities in mind, so it is a short, intuitive way from the pod to the locker. They run a hand along their right wrist - the microchip has already been implanted and the incision healed, but the surface is just a touch too smooth over the hairthin scar - and lift it to where they know the scanner to be. It beeps helpfully.

_Identity recognized: BLOODHOUND. Please stand by, your inventory is being retrieved._

The door of the locker slides aside not ten seconds later, and Bloodhound reaches in, fingers encountering the familiar fabric of their downtime clothes. They quickly collect everything in the locker and get dressed, emptying a bottle of water before fitting the soft respirator over their mouth and nose. They do not check for the machine gun wounds - they used to look for the traces of destruction at first, and their mind still remembers the pain, but this body has no memory of it, no chemicals of distress to release into the bloodstream and confuse their brain.

The world comes into focus as Bloodhound finally opens their eyes behind the glasses. They check their hands - the last stretches of skin left uncovered - look over the scarred knuckles, the tiny cuts like cracks in the year-rings of their fingertips, the soft dusting of hairs.

Still the same. Every time, they look exactly the same. One would never guess the panicked thrashing of the needle of their inner compass as the magnetic fields have flipped into incomprehension.

Bloodhound frowns away the sudden sour ache around their eyes and pulls the gloves over their hands.

It is done. The only thing they can do now is live with it.

***

Bloodhound does not get to see Elliott until the next day, the game day too full with celebrations and interviews and a party that Bloodhound has no desire to attend. And Elliott must be busier than most, dealing with the legal part that comes with winning a massive sum of bloodsport money. Busier than Bloodhound, that is for sure - the prize for the second place did not even need to be taxed. Gerdur’s project will have to go just a little bit slower.

The base has a library, and Bloodhound hides out there, crammed into one of the nooks with a stack of books and a tablet. They never had many books on Talos growing up, so they read now when they can, appreciative of the sea of information.

Plus, it is a powerful distraction from something strange and _present_ yawning open in their chest.

“Hound!” Elliott finds them, his frame filling almost the entire space between the two tall bookcases. By all laws, it should make them feel trapped, back against the wall, the only way out firmly blocked. “I’ve been looking for you all over! Hello.”

They crane their neck to look up at him. He looks - he looks better. Oh, thank Gods, he does not look like he is poisoned anymore. Tired, yes, and worn, and scraped along the edges, with a couple of butterfly bandaids still on his forehead - as a surviving winner, he did not need to have his body reprinted, and the spectators love a scar or two - but...lighter. Steadier. No longer in freefall.

It worked. It was not for nothing.

“Hello,” they respond automatically, still awed by the sight of him. “Congratulations,” they add, not knowing what else to say.

“Thanks - hah, I’m gonna surprise mom when I see her, he’s gonna be so happy,” Elliott reaches up to scratch his head, suddenly bashful. “Wasn’t easy - I still can scarc-- sca-- hardly believe that we’ve won. I was _sure_ someone would just chuck a grenade and off us, but Ram wouldn’t budge, and - well. I mean! Who am I telling? You were there.”

Bloodhound grins beneath the mask - oh how they have missed this - but Elliott’s expression turns drawn and serious.

“Hound - what happened?” he asks.

Bloodhound swallows, heat trickling into their limbs. “What do you mean?”

Elliott’s smile is uncomfortable, an uncertain animal showing teeth. “C’mon, I’m not an idiot. You didn’t - you - you didn't throw the game, did you.”

His voice does not lift into a question at the end. He knows the answer, and so he weighs it down so that he would not have to hear it confirmed.

And after the way their last conversation went - how hypocritical it is of Bloodhound, to preach about honour and honesty and then go and do - that.

They sigh and power down the tablet, placing it carefully on top of the stacked books. 

Maybe it will all make sense to him, after all. They could at least try.

“Let me tell you a story,” they say.

Bloodhound tells him about Boone. About his arrival at Krákuskel, the two of them embarking on a quest to find an invisible beast, their bonding - painstaking and slow right until it turned fast and sharp and all-consuming - the day they finally found the beast’s winter lair.

It is strange to talk about him, releasing him from their memories for the first time ever, into the same air Elliott is breathing before them.

“And he just - left with it? Without even saying goodbye?” Elliott asks, incredulous. He is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Bloodhound now, his face turned attentively up.

“He had no qualms about capturing a hibernating beast when it could not put up an honest fight,” Bloodhound shrugs, a faint, old, well-tasted bitterness colouring the memory. “Why would he wait around for me to witness that when he already knew my view on the matter.”

They pause and wait for the stretch to brim with silence before telling Elliott about Boone’s death, the regret they got to glimpse in his eyes before it happened - and how it since has solidified into the mission that has brought them to the games. How every fight fought with honour, every victory won with the help of the device that he and Bloodhound have designed together contributes to the mounting proof that Boone should be allowed a better afterlife than the one he undoubtedly got. If Bloodhound may go to Valhalla, so may Boone. And that means that Bloodhound has to be worthy themself.

“Besides, he owes me an apology, I think,” the sound of their voice lilts through the quirk of their mouth. “If I have to ensure that he makes it to Valhalla to hear it, so be it.”

Elliott huffs out a laugh, but there is a troubled tightness around his eyes that Bloodhound finds themself wishing to smooth away with their fingers. “So what happens now?”

Bloodhound considers the question. The decision was theirs, in the end. They do not know exactly when it was made in the darkness of their unconscious - perhaps behind the bicycle stand, perhaps at the first kill, or even earlier than that, sometime in the stretch of the purgatory after Elliott had first told them of his mother. But now the aftermath of that choice only leaves a thousand questions in its wake, like trees toppled by a storm, their gnarly roots exposed to the eye.

In the end - what will be enough? How many victories? Or will the number not matter as long as it is _every_ victory? How does a deliberate loss weigh against that? Does it undo one, three, twelve? Or does it taint them all like a mouthful of rot in a thaw-water barrel? Do they start anew? Or is it something that can never be righted? 

Have they ruined it all for good?

Even thinking these questions is an act of mutiny, an implication that the Allfather would stand being haggled with. It feels wrong - worse than wrong. 

But - if Bloodhound’s decision to help Elliott was the pebble that will eventually lead to Boone fading into oblivion, to Bloodhound themself, even, fading into oblivion as punishment for their hubris, their arrogance, if all of this will be buried under the heavy snow simply because Bloodhound’s compassion is not reserved solely for the dead...then Bloodhound will answer to the Allfather when their time finally comes to stand before His judgement.

“I do not know,” they answer honestly, but their chest feels lighter. Come what may. “I will keep fighting as I always have. My faith guides me.”

“But why did you do this?” Elliott is leaning slightly forward, as if trying to glimpse something behind their glasses. “This is - was - is - so important for you, so - why?”

Bloodhound shifts in their seat. If they would slide just a little bit forward and lean down - they would reach him. (And then what?) “I wished for you to win,” they say softly. “I believed that you would, with or without my help, but once I was the last remaining obstacle, belief was no longer enough.”

Elliott says nothing, though his lips are parted - he looks gutted, swaying a little where he sits as if from a blow.

He does not need to say anything. Bloodhound does not need words in order to understand him.

They move to get up, to squeeze past him - he could probably use some space, _they_ could probably use some space, even if it feels like the last thing they want - but Elliott straightens up, alarmed, and lifts his hands as if to corral Bloodhound back down.

“Houndie - wait,” he blurts out. (They oblige. There really is very little they would not do for Elliott, as it turns out.) He chews on his lip, a quick and nervous motion. “Would you like to... come meet her, sometime? She should know who has - made it possible.” He laughs here, as if blindsided by a sudden memory. “She talks about you, actually! Well, ‘talks’ is a strong word, but she points it out every time you kick my ass in the arena and sounds weirdly hype about it, so.”

His eyes are so hopeful.

Bloodhound wants to refuse on instinct, to say no - Evelyn knew their mother, she is the last remaining link, oh Gods, what if she remembers more of her than they do? Can they stand it? Can they live with it?

But they cannot run from this - to run would be to define their decision as something to be ashamed of. And they are not ashamed.

“I would like that,” they say, tilting their head - Elliott always seems to appreciate any cues Bloodhound is willing to give him - and the way his face lights up is well worth any uncertain apprehension they might be feeling. 

“Oh, that’s great!” he exclaims, and suddenly his fingers are closing around Bloodhound’s gloved hand, their electric currents linking together, their planets colliding, and ah, how perfectly _thrilling_ it feels. “You’ll love her, I promise, she’s literally the best person in the world, we’re gonna have a grand time-- oh, oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you…”

“Wait - Elliott,” Bloodhound interrupts his momentary panic, squeezing his hand as he tries to pull it back. Only a suggestion of a grip, really, but Elliott heeds it, frozen like a deer in a prowler’s path. 

Bloodhound almost laughs at the two of them, still exhilarated from all of this - made all the braver for it.

“You have said before that the time was not right for you,” they say. He has said other things too - painful lies, daggers aimed at his own chest - but Bloodhound does not care to retrace them. “Do you remember?”

“Uh - yeah,” Elliott frowns, confused, the joy on his face marred for a moment by the reminder. “Why?” he asks cautiously.

“I was simply wondering.” Bloodhound pauses, looks at him - really looks, drinking him in, finding the inspiration for the words they need. “When it _is_ right - whenever that happens - would you like...to go out with me?”

Elliott sits up even straighter, his eyes round. His hand tightens around Bloodhound’s just as his face grows soft, a perfect counterbalance of tension, and something blooms and blooms and _blooms_ in their chest after a lifetime of winter.

“Oh Houndie,” he smiles, a small and private thing, eclipsed briefly as he brings their joined hands to his mouth and presses his lips against the cotton of Bloodhound’s glove, and oh, how beautifully it blooms in him too. “I really, really would.”


End file.
